


Untold

by Tolpen



Series: Downey Centric Headcanon Pile [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Beta-Reading In Progress, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Growing Up, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Most Of The Relationships Aren'T Really There If You Don't Want To See Them, Shoes Are Important, Social Issues, it's sort of sad, lots of headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 12:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11736753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: There are a lot of things Downey hadn't been told. There are also a lot of things he hadn't told. And maybe at the end of the day he can play piano again.





	Untold

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my beta-readers, once they actually do they work. And also oneinspats for inspiring me for two days which it took to write this down. I would like to say something clever in here but I am all out of words.  
> Crane, Thorninfoot, Mrs. Yarrow, Selene with her three unnamed siblings, and Lord Atteroy are all original characters and the Discworld series never mentioned nor hinted at their existence. I think that somewhere in Assassin's Yearbook is mentioned that Downey has a wife, so at least Aleesa has some plausibility.
> 
> Note on pronouncing: Aleesa is read A-lee-sah and Atteroy is read At-roy.

**\- Prologue -**

There are things you cannot possibly keep for yourself. You have to tell them to somebody. You mum at least. Sybil Ramkin was four and like every young noble lady her parents1 were nursing her on stories of princesses Beautiful, evil dragons and princes Charming.

Sybil was asleep and she had a dream. In her dream she was a princes and an evil dragon wanted to eat her. The dragon wasn't really evil, he was just scared and misunderstood and hungry, but it still wanted to eat her. But then there came prince Charming, shooed the dragon away and saved her. That was a detail Sybil remembered vividly from her dream later, the prince didn't kill the dragon, he shooed it away, she was absolutely certain about it.

She looked up to prince Charming in her dream and asked: “Oh hero! What reward do you ask for saving me?”

And the prince, and she was definitely certain about his answer when asked later, said: “A new kettle would be awesome.”

There are things you cannot possibly keep for yourself. But Sybil Ramkin learned at a very young age that it could result in another flock of annoying governesses.

 

**i.**

There are things people don't tell you. Even when you ask. Directly. Downey was seven and had a lot of questions about the world. He also had the uneasy feeling people around him are lying to him. He knew they were lying to each other all the time, that they hadn't been seeing the neighbour lady, that they don't know where the money went, that they are good persons, officer, and never seen that person in their life. But those were different lies. Those were lies they wanted to believe too.

Rain was cold and Downey was sitting on a crate, sheltered by a tiny balcony above the street. He was counting. He was very good at that. Yesterday there had been riot at the Tobacco Road. It had been all peaceful in the beginning, just the dock workers wanted better payment so they could feed families. There had came troops. They had began shooting. Today the morgues were full. Dock workers mostly, yes. But lots of other people too. No troops among them, though. That was yesterday and today, and this is what happened five minutes ago:

Downey asked Crane: “Why do they riot?”

“Because they think they aren't paid enough,” Crane answered

“And are they?”

Crane gave him a long pitying look. Crane was about forty, had his receding hair cut short like a soldier, long coat with nearly endless pockets and three o'clock stubble, no matter the time. He also had tan, hazel eyes, somewhat cracked sense of humour and Genovean accent so strong it had to be fake. Downey liked Crane. Crane didn't lie to him.

“Well, little bird,” he said and made himself more comfortable on the crate and had a long draw from his cigarette, “what do you think?”

Downey gave it a long thought, so long that when he spoke again, the cigarette was nothing but ash. “Some of them even had shoes.”

Crane also had shoes. He had told Downey that once he is old enough and big enough to use them as shoes and not boats, he can have them. Downey had only muddy crust from toes up to his ankles. It was summer. No one needed shoes in summer.

“The problem here is, birdie, that they are not going to pay the workers more. They want the money for themselves and aren't going to pay somebody more because they have families. So there will always be riots punished by troops. And that will result in deaths.”

“But if they kill the deck workers, who will load the ships?”

“Birdie, this is the Shades. You have twenty people on each finger who are willing to stand in the Ankh water barefoot and knee deep just for little money. There will always be new deck workers. Always. What are you doing with your little fingers?”

Downey was counting. He was very good at that. Then he looked up and said: “That is two times two tens of twenties. That's... Four hundreds of deck workers.”

Crane's shoulders shook. Then he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed and then he coughed and then he laughed some more. In other places people would be looking out of windows who is being so horribly murdered, given the sound, but this was, after all, the Shades.

When he was calm enough to breathe again, he lit another cigarette and said: “Clever birdie. But do you know what happens to the little kids and their mums when the daddy deck workers riot?”

Downey thought about it: “Well, they have to take care after themselves. Like I do.”

“And you know what that is?”

There was time for long adult word, the kid felt it: “Responsible.”

“No,” shook Crane his head. “That's illegal. It's thievery and it's punishable by law. So if they catch you, they lock you up for good and cut off your hand. Or hang you.”

“I know that. Everyone does. But does the Patrician know?”

“About the cutting and hanging? Of course he does.”

“I meant that by killing the rioters he will kill more people.”

Crane shrugged. “Maybe. He doesn't care. It's not him. He gets the money, he doesn't have to riot. To him or to nobility we are not important as long as somebody is here to replace the killed deck workers. And let's face it, birdie, there always will be.”

Downey thought for a little longer and then counted for a while. When he finished his counting, he looked up to crane and asked: “Do you think I should work in morgue then?”

Crane laughed. And it was still raining.

There are things people won't tell you, but after all Crane wasn't people. Crane would tell you that yes, you should work in morgue.

 

**ii.**

There are things people don't tell you everything about. You have to figure half of them out by yourself. Sometimes more than a half. Downey was ten and he already knew that changes has to be made from above. And that all the people who are above either don't care or don't know what to do. And on the other hand Downey knew what should be done, or had at least a vague idea.

Snow was cold and he was sitting on a pile of bricks and stones. He was thinking. He didn't think he was anything excellent but he was of the opinion that he has to be good enough. He wondered if anyone would listen to him. Probably not. People usually didn't listen to children. Or anyone from Shades. Except Crane but, and Downey was fairly sure about this, he knew everything the little birdie had to tell him.

He got up and decided to go and ask Crane some things.

Finding Crane in winter was an easy thing if you knew him a little. He was either at some pub or inn, or at the pits. And because Crane was never drinking before noon and it was still snowing, he was surely at the pits.

Downey wasn't sure how he felt about the pits. They were built and well hidden at the backyards and shacks of the Cattle Market, some of them were even in the cellars and the streets _under_ Ankh-Morpork. It was the place where the dog-bothering happened.

Normal dog fights were dogs and dogs only in the pit. Dog-bothering included people. Sometimes it was also called dog-dancing. In the pit was a man, well usually a man, and the pit master let in one very angry dog. The man was not allowed to harm the dog and the pit was quite large. With each minute passing another dog was let in until there were twelve dogs and one man.

There was a lot of honour in it, that kind of honour which is often found among thieves. And also money, because in Ankh-Morpork everything was done for money. It wasn't a proper bet unless somebody could die and the death risk wasn't fun until there was a bet. Downey's personal record in the pit was nine minutes. For now. Somebody could say it was nothing but cruelty but the people knew what they were going into when they went into the pits. The dogs were the best fed, the biggest, the fiercest and best taken care of on this side of the river, and you knew the risk when you entered the pit.

Crane was at the pits, leaning on the fence and watching the dog-botherer down there avoiding the strong jaws and paws. It was hot at the pits, there was body on body, and despite it was strictly prohibited, Crane was smoking. Downey made his way to him, he was successful mostly because people don't expect being elbowed _below_ their waist.

“Hey, little birdie. I thought your mum told you not to come here ever again.” It wasn't a question, it was a statement. The both knew what Mum thought about the pits and they both knew how much Downey cared for it. If he slept under her roof, it'd be something different, but he didn't.

“How do you make people listen to you?” Downey rested his chin on the fence and also watched the dance down there. The man was good, he already had six dogs on him. Clearly not doing it for the first time, Downey though because the man was taunting the dogs so they charged on him without thinking and tired soon.

“You talk to them.” Crane had to raise hos voice, because the noise of other people being people was too loud to hear a decent quiet conversation.

“But how do you get them to _listen?_ ”

“Usually by sounding very confident and educated. And on their level. Or above.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Schools are a good start.”

“I am going to need a good school. Probably the best one.”

Crane looked at Downey curiously: “What are you planning, little birdie?”

Downey returned the look and then reached down and helped to lift the man out of the pit. Then he said to Crane: “I want to bother much bigger dogs in a much smaller pits.”

“Listen, Downey,” told him Crane as they walked out of the pit. “You should be careful about that. Don't end up six feet under sooner than me.”

There are things people won't tell you everything about. Downey wondered whether it was or was not goodbye.

 

**iii.**

There are things you don't tell your classmates. _Especially_ your classmates. Especially when half of them are some kind of nobility and the other half considers pocket change what you call your year budget. Downey was fourteen and had been at the best school of Ankh-Morpork for a third year, and he already knew how important is to hold his tongue nearly all the time.

He was considered a _problematic child_ by the teachers. He was coming late to classes, he didn't make notes, his attention was _everywhere else_ all the time, and average at best at all classes. Truth be told, Downey managed three different jobs to pay his tuition, all by himself, couldn't write nor read, and found the teachers lectures boring at best at incorrect _and_ boring waste of time at worst. Half of the subjects he had no idea what the bloody hell is it supposed to be about and the other half he already knew.

De Chacals Academy was at least letting him live on the campus and eat in the school canteen. Most of the pupils and students, however, called it AA, Assassin's Academy, which fitted better. Downey usually called it just school.

The first thing he did was, he got his library card. The second was finding the loudest group of people and listen and watch them for long enough to be sure he could imitate them even asleep. It was all about the accent, tone of voice, and movement. Look confident enough and speak in the right manner, you can be anywhere and go wherever you want.

Downey learned fast. He made friends well. He was good at that. They wanted to be listened to, they were young and self-centred like a circle. Downey listened, came up with ideas, was funny with his silly knowledge of strange things and most important of all, he was very average.

He never told anyone, not even Ludo, how hard it is to get average points on written exams when you can't read. He was learning, of course, but teaching oneself to read is very hard. Especially when you are ten years behind at it.

He never told anyone he had fallen in love. Beautiful. Perfect. Clear. Despite illiterate, the love came with the first tone of the voice and the first line of paper. Music was amazing. And it was, in fact, counting again. Downey was good at counting. Soon he found out that he was good in music too. On some nights, when he felt overwhelmed by the textbooks and remembering long lines of letters, he sneaked into the music room, tuned up the piano or the violin and played, just for himself.

He never told anyone that it was then when he noticed _him_. Live in the Shades long enough and you learn to know when someone is watching you. Or when someone is nearby. You either learn, or you die. On the music nights, sometimes _he_ appeared. _He_ watched and observed, much like Downey did. But while Downey was perfectly hidden next to the centre of attention, _he_ was standing on the edge, silent and empty space.

But empty space is a space nevertheless. You can track what is missing by knowing what _is_ there. Downey found out that, while not being in the same class, they were in the same year. And they even had Quirmian lessons together. 2

There are things you don't tell your classmates. You don't tell them you know they are so intelligent they don't have to pretend they aren't. You don't tell them they can change things from above better than you could ever dream of. _Especially because,_ Downey thought as he closed the piano slowly enough for _him_ to disappear without being seen, _in order to change things from above you have to personally see the bottom._

 

**iv.**

There are things they don't tell you in school. For example how to distinguish hangover from concussion. Or such a thing that kicking somebody still half asleep with bare heel in chin is effective but hurts like a _bitch_.

Despite his head aching and heel hurting, Downey was suddenly very awake and very aware that he always thought he'd nineteen years old and if he doesn't move it _right now_ , he is going to be right. Cruces was laying on the floor, dagger still in hands, and had just spat out few teeth. He was indisposed for the moment, but he was fully dressed and therefore also armed, and had two friends with him. Downey on the other hand, had just woken up, was only in his pyjamas, ached all over, and his face was painted with black and orange.

Over the years Downey learned to read, write and count even better than he thought it's possible. He was nineteen and not taking any chances.

He defenestrated himself out right into the bloody revolution.

Downey was sure of nine things:

Firstly he wasn't going to do the exams from Applied Alchemy, also known to pupils as Poisons, anytime soon, because the examiner for Poisons was bloody Mericet, and Cruces was Mericet's favourite, and Downey just happened to kick half of the molars out of the said prodigy.

Secondly the headache was still a thing, despite he slept for most of the day. It probably wasn't a hangover, mostly because hangover doesn't feel to have the centre of pain at the back of your head. Downey thought it could be concussion, but he really had no time to bother with something like a headache.

Thirdly the revolution was at its best. Not like it mattered. Both Winder and Snapcase were scags all the same.

Fourthly whatever was Havelock Vetinari doing, it was a calculated risk, he probably wasn't in black, and politic was most likely involved.

Fifthly, hand in hand with that, it was a good idea to burn that damned book. Cruces didn't like Downey but he also disliked Vetinari and went to his room first. Given that the crane resembling assassin was somewhere out there fighting for his ideals of justice and freedom, Cruces couldn't possibly find him in his room but he could take a look at his books. Downey could only wonder why hadn't Vetinari destroyed that damned thing himself.

Sixthly the revolution was meaningless and Vetinari was going to hit the rock bottom. It was almost as cruel as to throw him down to the pit in the Cattle Market. But as much useful.

Seventhly he was out in the revolution, he hadn't any weapons, was barefooted and only in his pyjamas. Plus the headache which might and might not be a hangover or a concussion.

Eighthly he had to search for the man corpse that disappeared from the morgue yesterday some other time, same went for going thorough what was left of its possessions. Which wasn't actually much, only a letter Downey had pocketed when he had done the autopsy. There went all the plans for today  
Ninethly this was bad and it was happening in Shades too.

Downey didn't really think about it and legged it to the barricades. To sneak to the Shades was a piece of cake. To organise the thieves and cut purses into somewhat reasonable force of resistance was a bit harder but not much.

He was sitting barefoot with a short sword in each hand on a balcony, waiting for the next cavalry to arrive. This was a perfect ambush spot. And also a good five minutes of break.

“Hey, little birdie.” Crane sat down to him, crossbow on lap.

“Hey.”

“Haven't seen you around for a while.” It sounded a little like a compunction. It was one.

Downey sighed: “I've been busy. Work. School.”

“So I have heard.”

There was a pause. Then sound of the marching soldiers and one lone horse. Crane and Downey exchanged looks. They smiled. It was a smile an assassin and a mercenary give to each other before they start a bloodshed.

“If we both get out of this alive,” Downey promised, “I'm paying you all the ale you can drink in one night.”

There are things they don't tell you at school. They tell you, however, how to slit a throat open and not make much mess, which proves that sometimes, just sometimes they tell you something useful.

 

**v.**

There are things you don't tell Crane. Downey didn't tell him he was taught at his History class about Lilith and the Purging of Genova. Seeing Vetinari's face was enough, he had no need to repeat it with Crane. He also didn't tell him that to Downey he seemed familiar, very resembling one certain picture of a certain Brindisian noble in the textbook.3

Downey was twenty and wished he could tell anybody his newly gained shoes were him one and half size too big. He wanted to share it with someone. He thought about telling Ludo.

“Ludo, I have shoes that are one and half size too big for me.”

Ludo, always so considerate, neat and polite, looked him up and down and answered: “They are quite worn. Didn't you find out sooner?”

“I did not.” And there the conversation died.

He expressed his discomfort on the piano in the music room. He cried all over the keyboard and wished Vetinari was there to listen, but this time he didn't come to listen to music.

Out of options he went to the pits.

There are things you don't tell Crane. There are things you wish you could tell Crane. Downey really wished he could tell him about the shoe size. Or that he stayed in the pit for thirty-seven minutes and fifteen seconds and broke the record by sixteen minutes, no less. Or anything else, really. He really wished Crane still was there.

 

**\- Intermezzo -**

There are things you wish you have never told to anyone. Ever. Under no circumstances. Vetinari was seventeen, has a fiancée who he did not plan to marry and who had no plan to marry him and they both agreed the betrothal was truly an amazing way how to make her parents and his aunt to finally give them both a break. It was also a great reason why do meet in the library of her mansion once or twice every week and spend two hours together in undisturbed comfortable silence, each reading whatever they felt like, occasionally out loud when they found a good piece.

It was also an easy way to get a dancing partner, who actually knew what she was doing with her legs, on the annual Academy Hogswatch Ball. It was a good night they spent together, small chat, small drinks, small food, a lot of dancing.

“I only wish they didn't play that awful music,” he mentioned to Sybil in the short break they took on a balcony.

Sybil sipped her champagne and brushed an invisible dust off his suit. “I thought you like music.”

“I like music,” he agreed. “However, musicians? Should be prohibited. By law.”

That was a week ago. Since then Vetinari found out has was waking up at half past four in the morning, when all other members of the Guild along with all the pupils and teachers were sleeping. He wanted to brush it off, just like Sybil had brushed off the invisible dust, blame it on the nerves from the upcoming final exams.

But it wasn't the exam anxiety and he knew it. Exams were still nearly half a year away. Something was odd. Something was off. It was the eighth night, he was tired and couldn't sleep, and he was dedicated to find out. It had to be something in the building.

He was sneaking thorough the hall, the creaking of the floor and his own heartbeat had to be the loudest things he had ever heard and the echo had to carry them thorough the silent sleeping building to the Headmaster's office or to the room of any of the tutors and wake everyone up. Vetinari nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard another footsteps right in front of him.

“It feels strange, doesn't it?” It was Ludo. Good gods, just Ludo. He had a glass of water, sleeper's hair and dark bags under eyes. The best assassin in their year was leaning in the door frame4 and watched the empty and dark music room. “The silence,” Ludo continued after a sip of water, “keeps waking me up.”

Vetinari only nodded and left. On the way back to his room he was cursing himself and his own stupidity.

There are things you wish you have never told to anyone. You never knew who was listening too. Vetinari hadn't heard Downey play ever since. There are things you regret. Quietly.

 

**vi.**

There are things you don't tell other people. Not in the city of Ankh-Morpork when Snapcase is at the steering wheel. Downey was twenty-four and had witnessed a lot in the last few years, had witnessed enough to keep his mouth shut.

There was twenty-one of them the year Lord Snapcase became the Patrician. The year after was their graduation. Only twelve of them got to the final exams. Unfortunately, Cruces was among them. Downey still had a small wooden box in which he kept the four Cruces teeth he kicked out of him and whenever that blasted idiot was annoying beyond reason, Downey _rattled_ the box.

It was three years and half after that too. Scapcase's hunt of assassins left only very little of the Guild. There were only a few reasonable people left, the rest was the idiotic psychopath who somehow escaped Snapcase's notice or even worse, those who won his favour. Ludo and Vetinari both went out to the world. Of the reasonable people only Mericet was left. And Downey knew it was bad when he had to count Mericet as a reasonable person. Dr Fiollet, good Dr. Fiollet had been nearly four years six feet under. He had been the first one to go.

Downey counted. He was good at that. No. He was _excellent_ at that. Maybe he had to do a lot of side work to have get Applied Alchemy degree, but he was the only one who got the perfect score from Math. He spent three years on post-graduate study. The good thing about being graduated assassin was that he no longer had to have three jobs, one was good enough. He kept working in morgue, it felt right and there was _always_ work. He also was visiting the Teacher's Guild around the block from De Chacals Academy and by good time management he got his teacher's license about the same time he got his post-graduate degrees. That was a good thing, because now he could focus on his side work for Applied Alchemy.

“Downey,” Flannelfoot huffed at him from across the table, “the city is in ashes. Do you feel it's...” The President and Headmaster paused.

“Appropriate, sir?” Downey suggested.

Flannelfoot tried to kill him with glare but Downey had been glared at by experts and didn't bat an eyelid. “The city, Downey, is in ashes, it burned down half an hour ago. And you think it is appropriate to ask me to accept you on the teaching staff?”

“The city,” Downey didn't say, “burned down because you _failed_ to kill an Agetanean and a wizard, who himself has written it on his hat with _double Z_.” Instead he said: “Well, sir, I know that Mr. Thorninfoot is among the casualties and I also know that the Academy has no one to replace him as the Math teacher or his Architecture seminaries.” Flannelfoot grumbled and Downey took it as an invitation to continue with a polite smile: “As you probably remember, I am very good at Math and I have been told by Thorninfoot himself that my knowledge of Architecture is extraordinary.”

Zlorf Flannelfoot looked at him. Downey was shining pristine. His hair was the platinum blonde which seemed nearly silver white. His black coat was the perfect black. His teacher's license was brand new, not even folded, not stained with coffee, it was not chewed around the corners. In the dirty and ash covered office which reeked of smoke like everything else in Ankh-Morpork, Downey nearly shone. He seemed very off his place... And yet, and Flannelfoot had to admit it to himself, it was hard to imagine him being anywhere else. By the gods, he even spoke like a teacher, he had the perfect pronouncing and slow tempo of speech of someone who is used to push knowledge into young stubborn heads. And then there was of course the subtle accent of Elm Street boys which he sometimes let slide into his words, but only around Zlorf Flannelfoot and, Flannelfoot noticed it almost immediately, Zlorf Flannelfoot only. Downey was basically a friendly soul, if assassins ever considered having friends.

“It will, of course, take some time to write down the contract. Given that all the pre-written ones had, you know, burned down,” he looked Downey into eyes. The other one didn't look away, which in Flannelfoot's book meant he was either very brave, very stupid or very both. “But now tell me... Why would a smart and strong guy like you are want to waste his future on teaching?”

Downey smiled and swallowed the first honest answer that came to his mind, that the President probably hadn't got a half of a working brain, his second in command, being Cruces, was barking mad but no one noticed, everyone else was either a psychopath, imbecile, senile or just plainly incapable5 or not around to keep them in line.

“Because,” Downey spoke slowly, “I think it is the most valuable contribution I can give the Guild in these trying times.”

And it stayed that as that. Later the most valuable contribution to the Guild included work in the Guild's , the position of the Guild's accountant and leaving the morgue in Twinkle Street. The last one was a hard decision to do but it was impossible to keep his morgue apprenticeship and teach at the Academy and take care of the and do the accounting work. Plus Aleesa made it clear several times what her opinion on the morgue work was. And Downey knew better than to displease his wife.

Even later Vetinari returned back to Ankh-Morpork. He was quieter and more thoughtful than he used to be, which meant he barely spoke a word. Downey counted. He was excellent at that. He also knew that Vetinari counted and that he was very good at it but in a different way. Also Snapcase counted and despite he was very, very bad at it, he had Flannelfoot on his side of the equation, which meant he didn't have to count all that good.

It was a middle of the Math lesson and while Downey methodically explained algebra to the first graders,6 he was thinking and counting. He assigned the children a homework and let them leave the class five minutes earlier so they wouldn't have to wait in the insufferable long queue line for lunch. With his blue folder under arm, and deep in thoughts, but not deep enough to let people know he was thinking, he went to the Black Library.

“Ah, Downey,” Vetinari looked up from some papers he was reading. He was sitting comfortably in an armchair, there was an empty wineglass and a closed inkwell. Vetinari was holding a pen, tapping its tip against corner of lips.

“Vetinari,” he nodded back. It was in fact Lord Vetinari now when there was no classmate familiarity between the two of them, however, he didn't address Downey neither as Doctor nor Professor, which both were his rightful titles, so Downey would had rather eaten his tongue than to call him his Lordship.

“I heard that you had been recently promoted to the r of the Guild.” The sentence had a tail like a question. Downey could had answered that not only had he been promoted to the position of the Guild's r but also that he holds a seat in the Guild's Council, has the last word in the Academy year curriculum, is overseeing the... Ah, the field operations, that was the term. He could had answered that when anybody asked a question, the answer usually was: “I don't know. Ask Dr. Downey.” He could had answered him all of that but there are things you don't tell in a building ran by Snapcase's right hand who was a ruthless killer with feelings of a three day rotten fish.

“Yes, so it is,” Downey affirmed. “And I have heard you have returned to finish your post-grade.” He put the folder down, next to Vetinari's correspondence and went searching for books. Curiously enough, Vetinari followed him. Perfectly black hair and nearly white hair, tall and short, perfectly pitch black and probably black walking side to side each other. Downey nearly chuckled.

“Are you looking for something specific?” Vetinari asked.

“In fact, I do.”

Vetinari didn't ask what he was looking for and Downey was grateful for that. He couldn't possibly explain. Or he could but keeping his head on neck afterwards would be very... Mm, he his life could be very short and very interesting, that was for sure.

There are things you don't tell in Ankh-Morpork. Downey didn't tell anyone he was counting. Counting down. He also wondered how well could he manipulate Cruces without him noticing. Or without anyone else noticing. And how fast would either Snapcase or Flannelfoot figure out how intelligent Vetinari is.

 

**vii.**

There are things you don't tell people because you don't know how you should tell them. For instance that you wife's health is fragile and you are worried about her. You'd have to explain that yes, you are married and have been for the past nearly fifteen years and no one paid attention to it.

Downey was thirty-seven, sleep deprived and kind of angry but not sure at whom. He was standing in the Oblong Office and Vetinari was talking about a lot of things without actually saying anything. He slightly regretted he hadn't enjoyed his silence back in the old days when they were younger. He let out a tired sigh.

Lord Vetinari raised an eyebrow and asked in a quiet voice: “Do you want to tell me something, Dr. Downey?”

Downey wanted to tell him a lot of things. He wanted to tell him how sweaty and squishy with all the fat Snapcase felt under his fingers when he had grasped the pressure points. That Flannelfoot had surprisingly bouncy body when pushed down the stairs.

He wanted to tell him that shortly before the whole incident with the gonne he had finished his work on Applied Alchemy, now again called Poisons, which was a very long thesis on usage of arsenic and finally even bloody Mericet, after bloody _seventeen years_ , had to accept it and give Downey the degree. That shortly _after_ the whole incident with the gonne when the City Watch was a huge ugly mess because of all the reorganisation, this exact work had been stolen and when he, Downey, reported it to the Watch and they laughed at it all. He wanted to tell Vetinari that a whole chapter dealt with possibility of adding arsenic into candles, how much of it is easily noticeable, how much is lethal, how to prepare them easily. That after getting a certain memo on a certain day he had carefully got into the Yard thorough the attic, lock-picked Vimes's office and then replaced the packet of poisoned candles with arsenic powder, because the Commander wouldn't understand the _candles_ but he would understand the arsenic as it was.

He wanted to tell him that he had no idea how the hell was the Guild still holding it together because everything, starting with taxes and ending with membership was an absolute mess. That if he wasn't disturbed, he could put the taxes back in order in three years but because of lots of other work it was going to take him much longer. That he was still working on it and two hours ago, after seven pots of coffee, and Lord Atteroy reminding him four times people need to sleep, he decided to call it a day and take at least a short nap in his old teacher's cabinet. That the Palace goons who came to wake him up and bring him here didn't him give enough time to change from his pyjamas, he was grateful he could put his shoes on. He wanted to tell him that the shoes were from Genovean leather and a size and half too big for him.

Downey sighed again: “No, my Lord.”

Vetinari put down his pen and the report he was pretending to read. Then he turned to the window and said: “You know, Doctor Downey, I have been thinking.” There was a pause for Downey to make a sarcastic comment but Downey wasn't Commander Vimes neither Rosie Palm so he didn't make one. He learned in the years, that his greatest weapon is mathematics and silence. The Patrician continued with a slight disappointment in his voice: “And I came to conclusion that the title of a Doctor has been... Put in very bad light when associated with the Assassin's Guild recently. Not your fault, of course.”

“If Doctor is a problem, you can always use Professor,” Downey offered politely. He still felt chalk on his fingers and was quite aware that school starts in three hours and that he starts it with two hours of Botany Seminar with the sixth graders, of whom all had gone drinking the night before, and he still hadn't corrected over half of their essays on venom traps.

“I am afraid the President of the Teacher's Guild could have some complaints.”

“President of the Teacher's Guild, that old basilisk, can stick it because he personally had given me the teacher's license fourteen years ago when he was nothing but a stupid secretary who wouldn't find his own arse even with a map,” Downey doesn't say. Vetinari was expecting him to comment on it but he didn't.

“Mm...” the Patrician said still looking outside the window. “Tell me, what do you see when you look outside of the window?”

Downey sighed again. Nap Hill, Seven Sleepers, the UU. Dolly Sisters if he leaned out a lot. Everywhere there people lived their stupid little lives, they'd riot if they weren't paid enough and then happily replaced the killed rioters in their work to feed their families because that was what people were good at. Replacing. Nearly everything and everyone was replaceable. The Headmaster of Assassin's Academy was too replaceable and so was the President of the Assassin's Guild, he experienced it first hand. All it took was a pile of papers and ink to sign them. But he was sure Vetinari was being dramatic for the sake of it.

He took a blind guess: “People.”

Vetinari gave him a long considering look and smirked. “You know, I sort of expected you to come up with something sarcastic. Something as 'What am I supposed to see in middle of the night?' or like that.”

“You are confusing me with your commander, sir.” Downey wanted to return to his bed or at least to read and correct the damned essays or poke in the Guild's tax papers. Not stand here and chit-chat about nothing.

“Ah yes. But despite the dark you saw people. Do you know what _people_ want to see?”

“Money,” Downey shrugged. And then he added: “Maybe you want to see a doctor with that cough, my lord. I know a good one on the Twinkle street, across the morgue. Or I have mint drops.”

Vetinari lowered his hand which covered his mouth just few seconds ago and the corners of his lips most certainly hadn't been curved upwards. “Well, I meant people like them in positions they can't really reach. But you also have a point here. People always want to see money, after all they are people.”

Downey politely waited.

“I thought that it is time to put the Assassin's Guild more in public, now that it is a well running official business.”

 _Oh no._ Downey's polite smile disappeared like flower scent near the river Ankh.

“And I think it is appropriate for it to be lead by a public person.”

 _Damn._ Downey blinked.

“Such as a nobleman.”

 _Shit._ Downey blinked again.

“All things considered, I have decided to grant you the Lord's title and-” and Downey stopped listening. He hadn't counted with this.

There are things you don't tell people because you don't know how you should tell them. That was mostly why Aleesa Downey learned she is a Lady two months later when her husband finally figured out how to explain her.

 

**viii.**

There are things you just can't ask people. Maybe they'd think you're crazy, maybe they'd think you are dangerous criminal. Maybe they'd ask you questions you never wanted to be asked.

Lord Downey was forty-nine and he wondered how to politely ask someone whether he was or wasn't a time traveller without being defenestrated, shot at with a crossbow or hit with a poker. He was wondering about it for a little longer and then decided to go and have a drink at Biers.

“May I sit with you, Miss?” he asked a lone young woman at otherwise abandoned table who seemed as if she shouldn't be at this place. But so seemed Lord Downey. They both were patrons here, Downey all the way back from his school years, and she...

Susan shot him a look. “I guess.”

“Your grandfather sends his regards.”

“That's very nice of him.”

“He is also asking if he is going to get an invitation to the wedding.”

Susan put her cocktail down on the table and shot Downey another look. Some other people noticed and flinched as thought it was directed at them. Downey was glared and shot looks at by experts so it didn't really move him. “Does he really talk with you about all of this stuff?”

“He sometimes likes to chat. I assume it is a lonely profession.”

“You can tell him,” Susan spat out the words like a king cobra spits out its venom, “that we aren't planning any wedding.”

“You tell him yourself.” That earned him another look. Downey smiled at her: “Susan, I don't speak from any experience here because I was never really close with my parents and hadn't even had the chance to meet my grandparents. But your grandfather cares about you deeply and I do not think it a good idea to cut all the connections.”

Susan kept staring at him as he ordered a pint and as he downed a half of it. Finally she asked: “Alright, what do you want? I told you, you're not getting me on your staff.”

Downey shrugged: “I gave you an offer. Take it whenever you want. But this is not about teaching algebra.”

“What is it about?”

Downey reached into his pocket and put something on the table. It was an envelope. It had been bled on, it had been crumbled, it had been left on sun to dry out, and it had been even opened. The address was impossible to read. Susan looked interested as she examined it and when she finally looked up, there was a question in her eyes she didn't say out loud.

“Do you mind a history lesson?” Downey rested elbows on the desk. He wasn't wearing his fancy coat and the shirt he had put on this afternoon had clearly seen better times. Tables at Biers could only improve it.

“Go ahead,” Susan nodded.

“You know about the Glorious Revolution. The man who led the barricades named John Keel, bad shave, eyepatch, heavy smoker.” Susan assured him with a nod that it is familiar to her and Downey continued: “You know, as one of the few people, that I worked in the morgue at Twinkle Street. Hold on, don't interrupt, it's connected. So that year on twenty-third of May they brought me in this guy. He bled to death, no wonder with all of those cuts in his stomach and throat, and had a badly cut eye. I have asked around a little after I did the autopsy. He came to the city thorough the Shambling Gate, stumbled into the Shades and three cut throats cut his throat.

Now here is the interesting thing,” Downey paused to take a sip of his root beer. “The morning after the body wasn't on ice. In fact it wasn't there at all. And old Barrow didn't even remember taking him in or overseeing the autopsy. All the belongings were gone as well and so was the autopsy record I had personally written. And strange enough as it was, no one around remembered what they did between two and three o'clock that night. So all I had left was the copy of the report I had made earlier and this letter I had pocketed and brought back with me on the campus.”

Susan gave him a pitying look: “You could sell that to the Times as a good short mystery story. Don't feed me up this just because somebody was dead in it.”

“Maybe you could read the letter.”

Susan read the letter. Twice. Then she asked: “You say he had it with himself?”

Downey nodded. Then he ordered them both another drink. Susan waited for her with a frown and when she got it, she handed Downey the letter back.

“Alright, so if this corpse of yours was John Keel, as this letter says, the who stood on the barricades?”

“Now, that is an interesting question, isn't it?”

Susan waited. She was very good at waiting. She could wait a whole life. The patience ran in the family.

Downey smiled at her: “Well, it had to be a man over forty, badly shaved, a heavy smoker who knew a deal of police work.”

“That doesn't narrow it much.”

“We also know he had to badly cut his eye at that time”

“It still doesn't narrow it much.”

A sigh. “Susan, think. Who do you know that fits this description perfectly?” Susan didn't answer so he continued: “I'll give you a hint: In a highly charge thaumaturgic field the continuum might be slightly bent. If an overcharge happens, wast energy is released and-”

“You are trying to tell me,” Susan cut him off, “that Commander Vimes had half a month ago travelled back in time, imposted John Keel, fought in the revolution, didn't die and came back. And what supports that theory of yours?”

“Two things. First is that on the morning of twenty-sixth they brought the dead policemen into the morgue. I knew some of them but guess who else I knew? The Sergeant-In-Arms, who they told me was named John Keel. Slightly older corpse, and already autopsied.

Second... I basically grew up with Vetinari. We were in the same year at the same school after all. I know the way he looks at people he admires. And I know he admired Keel. A lot. And I am not blind and noticed in what way has he been looking at the Commander for the last two weeks. And as we know, there is only a little the Patrician doesn't know.”

Susan sighed: “So what are you asking of me?”

“You know people, and by people I mean your... Friend. Oh come on, no need to blush about that. All I ask you for is if you could confirm whether I am right or gravely mistaken.”

“What are you going to do if you find out you are right?”

“Burn the evidence. De Worde is very imaginative person and the Commander is too important.” And then they both paid and parted.

Downey went home, he didn't feel like returning to the Guild that night. His wife and youngest daughter were waiting for him. They were still living in the small flat near Oxpens because Aleesa didn't see a reason why they should move, not even the fact she was a Lady now and married to the Head of the Guild of Assassins, and Downey, for once, completely agreed with her. He apologized to Mrs. Yarrow, their landlady more than twice his age, and skipped up the stars.

“Hello, honey, I am home.” He greeted his wife in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table and was giggling. Selene, who inherited all her mother's beauty and her father's stubbornness and hadn't still moved out only because she was only thirteen, was sitting next to her and was giggling too. When both the beautiful ladies saw him, they burst out in laughter.

“Alright,” he sat down to them. “What did I miss?”

“Should I tell him?” Selene somehow found enough breath to ask.

“No, I should tell him.”

“What should you tell me?”

“Maybe,” Selene said, “we shouldn't tell him at all.”

“Maybe it's way past your bedtime, sweetheart,” sent her Aleesa promptly to bed. The girl wasn't happy about it but didn't dare to complain. She had heard the stories how her mother shot a crossbow at her father. Downey was fairly sure he never manages to catch a crossbow bolt in flight again. And he was in no hurry to find out.

“So,” Downey kissed his wife lightly on cheek, “what is all this fuss about?”

Aleesa handed him a small book that laid on the table. The cover said its name was _Lady's Handful Colouring Book_. “I bought it Selene, you know much she likes to colour. In hindsight, I should have had looked into it before I paid for it. The snickering of the shopkeeping lady should have me warned.”

Lord Downey, father of four children, long practised mortician7 and Assassin browsed thorough the book. “Those are very... Flattering,” he said as someone with large biological and especially anatomical expertise.

Aleesa turned few pages. She watched for his reaction. He took precious care to not have any expression. They both spent five minutes in silence.

“I must admit I look very good there. Quite younger,” he said in the end.

“Do you mind Selene having-”

“Aleesa,” he cut her off, “there are more than enough this sort of... Colouring books for young boys. If Selene wants to have a girl's edition with the heads of the city, then she can have it. All things considered, she can colour in the tattoos the artist apparently doesn't know I have.”

That made Aleesa chuckle. Then her face went more serious as she said: “Don't you think the Times will-”

“If the Times are going to print an article about it, they better include that picture of William de Worde as seen on page fifteen.”

There are things you just can't ask people. But sometimes the right look at the right person in the City Council makes them answer it anyway. Rosie Palm, upon leaving the Rats Chamber, caught up with Lord Downey and quietly whispered: “I have nothing to do with it and gods save us if Vimes ever finds out his wife owns one of them.”

 

**ix.**

There are things which, at the end of the day, you tell to people. Such as that you are tired and have had just enough of this bullshit. Lord Downey ordered a kettle of coffee, a lunch for two and Pteppic.

“Sir?” asked the young Assassin. He then saw Downey's face and quickly corrected himself: “Yes, Doctor Downey?”

“Pteppic, be so kind and fetch Mr. von Lipwig for me, would you?” Downey had out his green inkwell and everyone in the Guild knew that the green inkwell contained the green ink and when things were going to be written in the green ink, shit just got serious.

Pteppic didn't want to remind Head of the Assassin's Guild8 that it is elven in the evening and while the Assassins considered it the middle of their shift, the Postmaster probably did not. “What,” he asked cautious of any items that could be possibly thrown in his general direction, “am I supposed to tell him if he doesn't want to come?”

Downey grinned and didn't throw anything at him. Pteppic had just realised how serious the shit was. “If he doesn't want to come,” Lord Downey said with voice so saccharine any diabetic in the building would had fallen promptly into coma, “then tell him that not only the well-being of the Guild and the city is in question, but the well-being of the Royal Bank as well and that there is a contract he should keep on his mind because if he doesn't care about the well-being of the Royal Bank, I can have his liver legally served on a plate. But I suppose that sending the crown prince of Djelibeby, Pteppicymon, sent for him will be enough of an argument.”

Moist von Lipwig arrived thirty-two minutes later and somebody had already given him a cup of coffee, so he didn't even look all that terrible.

“I heard the life of a crown prince is at risk and I came as fast as I could with tying my shoes. Someone please explain, what does it have to do with me,” Moist collapsed into an armchair and absent-mindedly scratched one of the big dogs in front of the fireplace behind ears.

“I have no idea what Pteppic had told you but if he keeps spreading misinformation, then _yes,_ life of a certain crown prince _will_ be at risk,” Downey sighed.

“You have beautiful little beast. Hunting dogs?”  
Downey chuckled: “No, pit dogs. Well, in fact their grandparents were, but those had never been bothered in their life. Maybe except for the occasional stupid students.”

Moist looked confused but shrugged it away. “Alright. What is it you wanted?”

“I suppose Vetinari told you he is going to name you the Tact Collector for the next season.”

“He hinted something in that sense yes. I think he said something like Lipwig, you will collect the taxes and you will do it properly, otherwise I'll have you hung again. All subtle, you know him.”

“I know him,” Downey nodded and they shared a laugh. “I would also love to have the taxes collected properly. The biggest obstacle is the Accountant's Guild at which you can shout loudly for long enough and it help. Second largest...” He left the unfinished sentence hang in the air like a noose and gestured towards mountains of papers.

“Oh. How long have you been working on it?”

Downey counted. He was good at that and lately he relied more on calculus than his memory. “Most of the time I have been the Guild's Head, take a month or two when I was panicking about it.”

Lipwig nodded. “Can I panic too?”

“You have five minutes. Then we get two kettles of Klatchian coffee and get this done.”

“Two pots of Klatchian coffee? Do you want to kill us?”

“Then we die like the heroes of administration. Better than being hung.”

It took over ten hours of active work. They didn't measure time in hours, though. They measured in in coffee. Later when Adorata asked Moist: “Alright, so how long in coffee then?” he answered: “Nearly a lethal dosage. At least Downey said that and he probably knows his stuff.”

Moist went home. Downey had a wish for a bed and two days sleep but got only a short cold bath to smell and feel like a human, Lord Atteroy forced him to have at least one toast for breakfast, and then the Head of the Guild took his blue folder of papers and went to the Palace.

He didn't even bother with knocking on the door and marched into the Oblong Office as if he was an unstoppable postal force. Needless to say that it caught both the Patrician and the Commander by surprise.

“Lord Downey, what is-” No one ever figured out what Vetinari wanted to ask because the blue folder slammed onto his desk and the slap of wood against leather was the loudest sound in the room. Vetinari opened the folder and browsed thorough it in silence. That took some time.

Then he closed the folder and said: “So this is why you nearly kidnapped Lipwig in the dead of the night from his own house.”

“Pretty much, yes.”

Vetinari gently smiled. “Astonishing work. Well done.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“If you are not too tired-”

“I am not.”

“-His Grace and I would appreciate your insight on this problematic matter in the Shades.”

That took another two hours. Downey had asked Atteroy, who happened to be his secretary over the past seven years, to get him a mint tea and now he was sure the tea will be colder than dog's nose when he gets to it. He hated cold tea.

“Dog-bothering,” said Vimes suddenly.

“I beg your pardon, Commander?” Vetinari raised an eyebrow.

“The crossword, sir. Popular sport practised in the Cattle Market. It's dog-bothering. With a dash in the middle.”

The Patrician looked at Downey, who somehow managed to keep an expressionless expression on his face, and said: “I believe you are now just pulling my leg, Commander.”

“I am not,” Vimes smiled. “Don't forget I grew up basically next to it.”

“Well I have never heard of such a sport.”

“You see, sir, you have a pit,” Vimes drew a circle on the table with his finger, “and in the pit you have a man, well usually a man. And then there is this big angry dog. With each minute they let in another dog until there are twelve of them. Once you are down there, you best chance to not get bitten is to taunt the beasts so they charge on you without thinking and then you have to move out of their way. You can't harm them but no one can blame you if they ran into each other or into the wall.” Vimes smiled. “I am not proud to say it but my personal record was four minutes. But then, we all were thirteen at some point.”

It seemed to caught Vetinari's interest. “And what is the longest record?”

“Over half an hour, I think,” Vimes scratched his beard.

“Thirty-seven minutes and fifteen seconds,” said Downey quietly. The two most powerful men of Ankh-Morpork looked at him in surprise and he rewarded them with a flesh of a soft smile.

“I always find it interesting,” Downey mused, “how excellent strategy it is when dealing with people, wouldn't you say so, my Lord?” And with a wish of a good afternoon he left the Oblong Office and the Palace altogether. He still had a work at the Guild after all.

Lord Atteroy welcomed him with a warm mint tea. He looked him all over and sighed: “You ought to get some sleep. Or at least change the clothes. Aren't those shoes too big for you?”

“A size and half,” Downey affirmed.

“You know, Ricin,” the secretary said, “I don't get this about you. How can you give so much into a job you so clearly hate?”

There are things which, at the end of the day, you tell to people.

_Vetinari gently smiled. “Astonishing work. Well done.”_

“See, and here you are wrong, Balthazar. I _love_ my job.”

**\- Epilogue -**

There are things people tell you. If they are your boyfriend, it is easy to get them to tell. Susan was twenty-seven and for the second time in her life she found herself walking up the stairs to Headmaster of De Chacals Academy, or as the unofficial name was Assassin's Academy.

On the door was a small brass sign that said: _Before entering, please, open the door._ It seemed to be there for quite a time. She ignored it and walked straight thorough five inches of oak massive.

Lord Downey stood up and smiled at her, offered her a chair even. People change their attitude when you don't charge into their office hitting their head with a poker. “You know,” Downey said, “there is a sign on the door.”

“I haven't notices,” she lied. His look told her he didn't believe it.

“So, what brings you here? And might I offer you something to drink?” Lord Downey seated himself back to his fortress of administration.

“Three things. Firstly, you were right. Secondly, it's on the sixth of February and you both are invited. Thirdly,” and here Susan took a deep breath, “I will work on your teaching staff. And if you have, I'd appreciate a cuppa.”

Downey smiled. It was one of the very rare, kind smiles when he was genuinely happy about something. “Really? What made you change your mind about the last one?”

Susan looked at him long enough and then said: “You are the first one who put a sign at their door because of me. How long has it been there?”

There are things people tell you. Especially if you ask nicely. Then they are even delivered to you with your cuppa. As Downey offered her a sugar bowl, he said: “Ever since we can't find Mr. Teatime.” He pronounced the name wrong and winked at her.

Downey then accompanied her to the front door and opened for her like a gentleman. When Susan was walking thorough the great main gate outside, she could have sworn she heard somebody playing the piano inside.

* * *

 

 

 

1Or since we are speaking of nobility here, the flock of governesses.

2It is also worth mentioning that Downey's Quirmian always had a heavy lower-nobility Genovean-Brindisian accent, despite his Brindisian sounded like he was born and raised in the Lete march. Later Ankh-Morpork historians would marvel at it, given that this man had never been to Brindis or anywhere near it in his life, if only they considered him a slightly more important political figure.

3Neither he told him that Crane's age very curiously matched the age of Alistair Trivius Leviathan, Marquess de Lete, exactly down to their birthdays.

4And coincidentally the best assassin known to Discworld but no matter how hard Vetinari looked, he saw only one person there.

5And in case of Lord Rust senior probably all of it together.

6He hadn't told them that algebra is too hard for first graders and the first graders apparently hadn't noticed and excelled it.

7However, only always an apprentice, the official owner of the business was Mr. Barrow.

8And coincidentally the person who knew exactly his Math grades and could tell it to _anyone._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so you made it to the end. That is basically as far as I got. So high-five! And while you are down here, maybe leave a comment?
> 
> Pssst, if you draw me Lady's Handful Colouring Book, I will buy you ice cream.


End file.
